


a very human magic

by heterocosmica



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, Family, Gen, Love, M/M, POV Second Person, Reincarnation, early humans - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24078553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heterocosmica/pseuds/heterocosmica
Summary: You're born, you live, you die, you're born... // You learn, you create, you love-
Relationships: Main Character/Multiple Characters
Kudos: 3





	a very human magic

Hands are hard. Feet are hard, too. Nature is harsh but it provides. Kind and soft carries you, kind and hard carries you, kind and slow carries you, you learn to walk with quick and small. Every step propels you forward into something never before seen. Hands are hard but they pet you softly. When you're in arms, there is warmth. And there is fire. Kind and hard lifts you up so, so high, and you leave a hand print on the stone. You are calm. Something soft lies on your chest.

Soon you are kind and soft. You cradle a small squishy bubble in your arms. You walk on and on. Quick and small is by your side, no longer as quick and certainly not as small. Hands are hard but you hold them tightly. You follow the large, warm thing until it falls, exhausted. You take it down. There is comfort in the warm fur you wrap around the small squishy bubble and yourself as the nights grow long. Your very own kind and hard presses in slowly, sharing your space and your heat.

You become kind and slow as your small squishy bubbles become big- and some don't and it hurts. Your kind and hard is no more. Quick and small, who hasn't been quick and small in cycles, is still by your side. Hands are hard but they pet the new small squishies softly. Hands are hard but they hold on tightly.

When you end, you leave fruit in your wake. Nature is harsh but it provides.

*

Lips taste like blood as you start and you scream and scream and scream. Bodies around you are warm. Calloused hands hold you. You are safe and protected. Still you scream.

The stones are hard, they hurt your hands, but you learn and grow and adapt. The pot you have made holds many berries. The animal other boy has caught has been stripped of its coat, a woman by the fire next to you is taking it apart. The coat will be yours, you are the one missing one right now, you have outgrown your old one. It will probably be given to smaller girl. The night around you sings as the bodies murmur.

Woman who taught you to create comes up behind you, puts hand on your shoulder, leans down, presses lips to top of your head. You are safe and protected.

Lips taste like blood as you press them to other boy's lips roughly. His body is warm and so is yours and the ground beneath you is crunching as you both fall down. You still wear the coat of the animal he caught winters ago as his rough, calloused hands push under it and into your skin. The forest around you sings. You scream.

Woman who taught you to create ends and you press your lips to her cold head. You cover her with flowers before she burns and then you sit by the fire, silent. The field around you sings and it hurts. Other boy sits next to you, now just one of many other men. Lips taste like blood as his hand holds yours.

World sings around you as you look at the other man. Lips taste like blood, stretching into a grimace. You fall with a scream.

*

Carer touches your head softly, touches other small humans' heads just as softly. World is calm and open to you. It belongs to you all and you breathe deeply, so deeply, as you soak it in.

Other small humans create and you create, too. You take the ground, you take parts of it, and you create yourself, over and over and over again. Your self is always new, always different, always you. Other small humans make themselves. You are all together.

The fragrant smoke fills the air and you breathe it in, your eyes catching the woman looking at you through it. She holds herself in her hand as she comes to you, places herself at your feet. You take her in your arms as the smoke curls around you. You give her yourself in return. You breathe deeply, so deeply, and the smoke fills you both.

Woman's hand touches your head softly, in the dim light of early day. Fingers card through your hair just as softly. She gives herself to you every day. You give yourself to her every day.

You give yourself to others. You have so much of yourself to give. They do, too.

Fruit is sweet in your mouth, the juices running down your chin. You look at the woman and the woman looks at you and there is a smile on both of your faces as another carer with a gaggle of small humans starts teaching by the fire.

The frost comes earlier than you expected. The woman holds you as your throat burns with every inhale. And you breathe deeply, so deeply, and you leave bits of yourself with every person you've ever had. And bits of their selves leave with you.

*

The land is kind, the land is giving, the land takes care of you. Your small hands tangle in mother's long hair. The first morning comes with you on her chest.

You live by the river. The fish are easy to catch. Every warm period, there is sweet fruit on the trees and vines and bushes. Life is good. The land is kind. Your hand grows as it learns to braid, first your mother's hair, then your own. The grass smells like freedom.

You weave flowers into your hair, carefully, patiently, as you let your voice rise. You sing and the women around you sing and life is calm. The land is kind and you respect it, you will give back to it.

You dance and dance, your feet digging into the soft ground, flower petals falling from your hair. Men look at you, and so do women. You look at yourself, too. At your arms and chest and legs. At the ends of your hair as it flows out of its braid. At the flowers beneath your feet.

The land is kind to your people and you are kind to it. Your hair shines copper in the sun. You give yourself to the river.

*

The world is full of colour, it's all around you as you meet it, in the ground, in the sky, in the trees and the adult humans looking at you with their faces stretched into something soft and warm and kind. You adore it.

You soak up the colour as it comes to you, from the nature around you. Home smells like flowers that heal and sister's hair shines like a snake in the sun, and you wish to wrap it all around you, pull it into yourself as it brings you that happy rush of feeling.

You like the colours in sister's eyes, and sister likes snakes. She holds them, carefully, patiently, lets them crawl up and down her arm. Others fear. You soon come to learn that snakes are dangerous, the colour teaches you.

When you are strong enough, smart enough, to create, you start learning how. When you create the first little snake, painstakingly taking the time to colour it like sister's eyes, you leave it at her grave.

And you create and create and create and the world gains colour with every day.

Just when you thing there could be no more colour left, it ends.

*

You have always existed, yet every time it feels different. Every time you are brand new. There is something profoundly fresh in you in every existence.

Life feels colder this time, but there is a vibrating bundle of fur on your chest as you wake and a warm body next to yours on the straw. Life is good.

You and your human, in your tiny corner of the world, create a new human. You watch it as it grows, you teach it to create, and you watch it as it moves the world, as it shifts the land and the sky just to create a space for itself.

You create more humans. You grow them patiently, watching as they advance, progress, then slowly leave your tiny corner of the world for a different one, a little ways away.

The vibrating bundle of fur has its own spawn, alongside you.

You work hard, you work with determination, you and your fellow human tear up the ground and ask it to birth nature out of itself anew. You have always existed but this existence is your favourite. Maybe the next one will be, too.


End file.
